The Didymus Contingency

—ONE—

B.C.

1985

2:35 P.M.

Zambia, Africa

Tom Greenbaum was captivated.
Herds of blue wildebeest and zebra scattered in all directions as Mpundu, the
dirty, mild tempered pilot of the small Cessna rental, took Tom down for a closer
look at the flora and fauna of the Zambian plains. It would have been easy for
most people to lose track of time, staring at the creatures, whose lives and
deaths played out on the brown tinged grass below. But Tom wasn’t most people.
As a quantum physicist with an IQ of 167, the calculations needed to time a
quick jaunt over the African plains were as easy as clipping fingernails.

Tom had planned this distraction
well. His international flight from Israel to Zambia’s capitol, Lusaka, touched
down at ten fifty three, ten minutes early. Megan expected his arrival at four
o’clock and the flight to her mission took two hours. Tom scheduled his flight
with Mpundu for twelve, giving himself an extra two hours time in the air. He
was glad to be seeing his wife again, but experiencing this wild, untouched
world from a bird’s eye view was too much to pass up. Besides, she would never
know.

Hours flew past and they
were soon cruising over a lush, green canopy of jungle trees, waterfalls and
rivers. The peaceful surroundings and white hum of the Cessna’s engine propelled
Tom to sleep, much to the relief of Mpundu, who had grown tired of Tom’s wonderment.
Not until they were making their final approach did Mpundu break the silence.

“Mr. Greenbaum…Mr. Greenbaum,
we’re almost there.”

Tom sat up and wiped the
drool from his cheek. As he squinted against the lowering sun he asked, “What
time is it?”

“Three forty-five...Tell
me, why do you come to Zambia? You have seen the animals, but where you are
going now has no animals.”

“Visiting my wife,” Tom explained,
his voice softening with the thought of her face and smile. “She’s been here
two weeks, but she’ll be staying another two after I leave.”

Mpundu’s face became visibly
confused. “You say your wife? Here in Zambia for two weeks without her husband?”

Tom nodded. “It’s the longest
we’ve been apart.”

“And you let her come here?”

“I would have stopped her
if I could,” added Tom, “Trust me. Since she found religion it’s been impossible
for me to get through to her. I swear the whole lot of them has a death wish.”

Mpundu’s smile faded. “This
is the worst place to come with a death wish.”

Tom’s forehead wrinkled with
concern. “Why’s that?”

“Because, Mr. Greenbaum,
it usually comes true.”

Tom’s smile shrunk away.

“We’re almost there,” Mpundu assured, “try not to worry.”

3:50 P.M.

Megan wasn’t the type of woman to run from a fight, but this was slaughter
and she knew Tom was flying into a deathtrap. She had to warn him. Megan peeked
around the corner of a grass roofed hut, which served as the chapel. She knew
the thatched wall of the hut was thick enough to hide her, but would do little
to slow a bullet. She saw her brave co-workers, lined up, arms behind their
backs. The men holding them prisoner remained out of eyeshot, but she could
hear their voices, strange, demanding, broken.

“Spet on his face! You do id nah!” a man shouted.

She knew all of her new friends would never give
in. She knew they would all die. Just like Charles. He had been the first to
refuse; he’d been dead for ten minutes now.

Megan could see Jennifer’s legs shaking. It was her
turn now. She was eighteen, an eager intern from small town Kansas. She’d been
on the job for two days, yet her convictions ran the deepest. She managed to
say, “Forgive them, Lord,” before a bullet cut her down as well.

Jennifer’s body slumped to the dirt. Megan covered
her mouth, terrified she would scream and alert the butchers to her presence.
But she couldn’t let that happen. Not while Tom was coming. This wasn’t his
fight. This wasn’t his place to die.

Eyes wet and unblinking, Megan turned and ducked
into the woods as another gunshot echoed through the forest. Branches stretched
out for her, scratching at her, clawing at her. They wanted to slow her down.
They wanted to kill her too. But her legs were strong from years of running
and the thickets that blocked her path exploded away from her, tearing open
her flesh and exposing an open path. Megan turned right and ran, ignoring the
streaks of blood slipping down her legs.

Movement in her periphery caught Megan’s attention
as she rounded a tree. She slowed and focused her vision. Four men were beating
a fifth…but she didn’t know him. She took in the assailants. They had rifles
slung over their shoulders. Each man was dressed in half military fatigues,
half tribal garb, the kind of people you’d expect to see in a National Geographic
full page spread. The angriest, most savage and most passionate man wore a New
York Yankees baseball cap.

Megan wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at
the sight, but it was long enough for her to be noticed.

“A woman escapes!” one of the men yelled, blood dripping
from his knuckles.

Megan’s gaze was frozen on the man who lied on the
ground, covered in blood and beaten to a pulp. He looked up into Megan’s eyes
using only his right eye—the left was swollen shut. Oddly, she noticed his clothing.
Blue, button down shirt. Polished shoes… polished shoes in the Zambian jungle?
His un-swollen eye grew wide and he yelled desperately to her, “Megan! Run!”

As Megan’s eyes snapped away from the man she saw
that the four locals were almost upon her. She launched into the forest, praying
her feet would carry her fast enough, praying for the poor man she left behind.
How did he know her name? Was he a friend of Tom’s?

Boom! Birds launched into the air behind her. She
knew the stranger was dead. It made her run even faster.

The path was thin and winding, but Megan had run
it every morning for the past two weeks. She knew every depression, every curve,
every fallen tree. They would never catch her here. But the path would soon
end and she would be running through an open field. She was fast, but
she was no Superwoman. She couldn’t out-run a bullet.

Mud splashed across her legs, mixing with blood,
as she hurdled a moss covered, rotten tree. She could see the sky through the
branches in front of her. The clearing and Tom lay just ahead.

3:57 P.M.

The Cessna pulled up and over a line of tall trees, emerging over a clearing
where a crude runway was chiseled into the earth.

Once the Cessna had come
to a stop, Tom and Mpundu began unpacking the luggage and the supplies Megan
had asked him to bring. Grunting with exertion, Tom heaved a wooden crate onto
the ground. After straightening back up he removed a bandana from his back pocket
and dabbed away the stinging sweat that trickled into his eyes. Tom had expected
help; workers from the mission, locals, whatever, at least Megan should have
been there by now. It wasn’t like her to be late.

“Tom!” It was Megan’s voice,
but from where?

Scanning the field of tall,
sun tanned grass, Tom found what he was looking for. His face lit up as he saw
Megan running toward him. She was yelling, but Tom couldn’t make out the words.
He started forward. As Megan grew nearer it wasn’t her words Tom finally understood,
but the tone of her voice. She was afraid.

Before Tom could launch toward
Megan, Mpundu’s firm grasp on Tom’s shoulder held him in place. “Do not enter
the grass, Mr. Greenbaum. There are predators.”

Tom looked back at Mpundu,
whose eyes were locked on a flock of birds bursting from the jungle on the opposite
side of the field.

“Lions?” Tom asked quickly.

“Worse.”

Pulling away from Mpundu, Tom plowed into the field,
deter-mined to reach his wife. “Megan! MEGAN!”

“Mr. Greenbaum! Come back! We must leave now!”

Tom ignored Mpundu’s call and continued forward.
Mpundu ran back to the Cessna and started the engine.

Megan grew closer and her words became distinguishable,
“Get away! Go back to the plane!”

Tom ran more quickly.

Boom! A gunshot pierced the air and Tom instinctively
ducked down. His chest burned with each panicked breath. What should he do?
Who fired the gun and at whom? When he picked his head up again, Megan was gone.
Tom’s eyes grew wide. “Megan?”

Ignoring the danger, Tom ran forward. “Megan! Where
are you? Megan!”

Fifty feet away, Megan stood up and looked at Tom.
“Run!” she yelled as her feet carried her toward Tom.

Tom surged forward, shrinking the distance between
them. As they grew closer, Tom could see Megan’s normally smooth face twisting
with fear and pain. His eyes darted to her blood red shoulder. She’d been shot!

Boom! A second shot pierced the air as Tom and Megan
came within ten feet of each other. Megan’s body arched back. Blood exploded
from her chest, covering Tom’s body and face. Tom stopped in his tracks and
the world around him moved in slow motion, as though the entire scene were happening
under water. The thick ruddy liquid felt warm on his face. Roaring blood rushed
through the veins in his head, making it hard to hear. Dizziness swept through
Tom with each pounding heartbeat. He felt himself falling, but his feet were
firmly rooted to the ground.

Megan stumbled forward, her eyes locked with Tom’s.
He could see her: brimming with enthusiasm over a new job, snuggled up by the
fireplace with a new book, glossy with sweat after a long run. And then she
was gone. Her eyes hardened and her muscles fell limp. She fell forward and
landed at Tom’s feet, flattening a section of grass with her body.

Tom looked down. His wife was dead.

Breath raspy and full of anguish, Tom fell to his
knees and rolled his wife over as tears condensed on his lower eyelids. He pushed
his hand against the flow of blood pumping from her body like a ruptured gallon
of milk. “Megan? Megan, please…”

Had Tom been more resilient he might have noticed
Mpundu streaking down the runway in the Cessna. He might have noticed the crunch
of moving brush and the smell of gunpowder. He sat in the grass; cradling
Megan and rocking back and forth like a caged animal.

It wasn’t until Tom felt warm metal against the back
of his neck and heard the click of weaponry that his attention was thrust back
into reality. He could see four sets of bare feet standing around him. His head
was too heavy to look up.

Standing above Tom were Megan’s four pursuers, led
by the Yankee fan.

“Do you believe ahs dis wuman deed?” asked the Yankee
fan as he pressed the barrel of his rifle into Tom’s temple. “Ansah me now.”

The Yankee fan walked to the side. The sun cleared
and Tom could see the man’s dark face, painted brightly with dry, red ink. What
was most striking about his face were the expressions—twisting and contorting
with confusion. The Yankee fan looked at Tom from all angles. Then he smiled
and stood up straight.

“Do you balieve as dis wuman deed? Do you balieve
en her God?” The man’s voice seemed deeper, more demanding. “Ah you not a disciple?”

Tom’s lip began to bleed as he bit down.

“Tell us! We want to know!” the man screamed.

“No, damnit! I don’t believe what she did! I never
will!”

The four men instantly lowered their rifles. The
Yankee fan squinted his eyes skeptically, then relaxed and smiled a rotting
grin, “Thun tuday es your lucky day.”

The other men laughed and patted each other on the
back for a job well done. Satisfied, all four turned and walked away, disappearing
back into the tall grass.

Tom was left on his knees with Megan in his arms.
His muscles began to shake. His eyes twitched to a maddening rhythm and blood
pumped adrenaline through his veins. He let his wife, who he clutched to his
chest so fondly moments ago, fall to the ground. Tom stood to his feet and cut
into the tall grass.

The four men walked away slowly. Tom caught them
quickly. He pounded his fist into the head of the first man before they heard
a sound. The man toppled over and dropped his rifle, which fired upon impact
with the ground. The bullet split several shoots of grass and then shattered
the ankle of another man who fell backwards into the grass.

The third man swung around and raised his rifle,
but he was too slow. Tom was upon him. Tom’s left hand held the rifle at bay
while his right hand smashed the man’s throat. The man fell to the ground gasping
for air, leaving his rifle in Tom’s shaking hand.

Tom raised the rifle toward the Yankee fan, whom
had already taken aim at Tom. They paused. Breathing. Staring. Listening. A
dragonfly flew between them and both men fired.

Tom was clipped in the shoulder and screamed in pain.
The Yankee fan stood unmoving with a hand held to his chest. Tom quickly regained
his composure and raised his rifle a second time. But the Yankee fan stood still
with a look of shock frozen on his face.

“So it’s true,” the Yankee fan said with a smile,
“You ah not a disciple.”

The Yankee fan’s hand slipped from his chest,
revealing an open wound. He fell to his knees and slumped over dead.

Moans from the other three men writhing in the grass
regained Tom’s attention. He aimed the rifle. One man raised his hands over
his head and begged in his native tongue. Tom looked away from the men,
toward the area of crushed grass where Megan’s body still lay. Tom took aim
again and asked, “Do you believe as she did?”

“W—What?”

Tom pressed the rifle into one man’s head. “Do you
believe as she did?”

“No! No! We do not!”

“Then, maybe I’ll see you in Hell.”

The guns shots could be heard for miles away, three
and then three more.